


came in from the outside

by SafelyCapricious



Series: things you find in a graveyard [12]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Consequences, F/M, Implied/Referenced Torture, Imprisonment, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 02:35:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21008309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SafelyCapricious/pseuds/SafelyCapricious
Summary: He pretends to be unconscious until he realizes that the wrapped in wool feeling of his body isn’t going away and that he cannot so much as twitch his fingers. When he opens his eyes – his head is strapped back against the chair and he can feel that at least, even if he can’t move his neck – Coulson is sitting across from him giving him that sad puppy look.He’d known that getting captured was a high likelihood on the mission and Bishop had argued against it endlessly and they’d come up with a backup plan. So he just has to find out how long he’d been unconscious and then stall.He’s still deciding between a cocky or repentant play when Coulson speaks, eyes sad. “I am sorry.”





	came in from the outside

**Author's Note:**

> Title generated by the [Hozier random fanfic title generator](http://www.generatorland.com/usergenerator.aspx?id=22501), and I'm starting to be concerned I'm gonna reuse a title because I'm really not paying attention and that's gonna be confusing so. Lets all look forward to that, hey?
> 
> Fictober continues. _Somehow_?????? i don't know either man.
> 
> Enjoy.

He pretends to be unconscious until he realizes that the wrapped in wool feeling of his body isn’t going away and that he cannot so much as twitch his fingers. When he opens his eyes – his head is strapped back against the chair and he can feel that at least, even if he can’t move his neck – Coulson is sitting across from him giving him that sad puppy look. 

He’d known that getting captured was a high likelihood on the mission and Bishop had argued against it endlessly and they’d come up with a backup plan. So he just has to find out how long he’d been unconscious and then stall. 

He’s still deciding between a cocky or repentant play when Coulson speaks, eyes sad. “I am sorry.” 

He arches an eyebrow as best he’s able with the leather strap across his forehead. “Why, because Tahiti isn’t a magical place?” 

Coulson shakes his head but seems to ignore him and leans forward earnestly. “I was overruled and this isn’t – just try to remember who you are.” And before Grant can question him more everyone else is filing into the room, May and Fitz and Skye and that Agent Weaver. 

“Looks like the gang’s all here,” he says with a nasty smirk, “Looking forward to this, guys?” 

May is stone-facing the room – gaze fixed on the wall and not giving anything away. Skye has her arms wrapped around herself tightly and he allows himself a moment to wonder if she’s actually worried for him before he sees the glances she keeps shooting Fitz. Fitz whose hands are clenched in fists and is glaring at Weaver and actually vibrating in place with rage.

Yeah, whatever is going on it’s not the T.A.H.I.T.I. protocol. 

That’s bad.

His men know exactly what to do for the T.A.H.I.T.I. protocol, and Bishop might be able to figure out whatever happens but that doesn’t – fuck. 

His mind latches onto what’s missing. She’s going to come through the door with some chemical to make him docile or something – that’s why Fitz is so angry at Weaver, she must’ve put Simmons up to it despite the lack of ethics. 

He starts to feel the first stab of panic but breathes through it like Garrett taught him. He continues to look unworried at all of them and asks, “Where’s Simmons anyways?” 

Fitz jerks like he’s been struck but instead of saying anything to him, gets into Weaver’s face and practically spits, “It should be me!” 

Weaver is going for the calm serenity mask that May wears so well and failing, exasperation squeaking out the edges as she soothes, “We can’t risk you, Fitz, you know this.”

Fitz snarls and suddenly Skye is there, holding him back. 

Grant tries to will feeling back into his fingers while they provide the sort of distraction he was hoping for. 

“So you’ll risk her! And with him! She’d rather be dead!” 

“She might be,” Weaver says calmly, and that’s when another group enters the room – Mack moves fast for his size and has Fitz ushered out of the room before he can say anything else. Grant can hear the muffled sound of Fitz yelling outside the door. 

Weaver sighs and shoots Coulson a disapproving look – May’s got that look of impending violence on her face and Grant still isn’t entirely sure what’s going on but he’s hopeful. The three red shirts that had come in with Mack have been bustling around behind him, and when he opens his mouth to hopefully goad May into action, one of them in his blind spot shoves a mouth-guard into his mouth.

Fuck.

  
This is going to be unpleasant. 

There’s a commotion behind him and he wishes he could use it – but he still cannot even wiggle a single finger. 

Weaver leans over him, blocking out his view of the rest of the room, and attaches _something_ to his head – he can’t see enough and she’s not bothering to explain – and then she’s backing up and telling someone behind him, “Start.”

That sounds ominous and he still can’t so much as twitch and – 

Pain arches through his body, everywhere at once. It’s jarring and even with his training he’s straining around the mouth guard and – 

Unconsciousness comes quickly. 

He wakes up slowly, every part of his hurts from his gums to his toes, and he still can’t move.

It takes longer for sound to filter back in – he hasn’t even tried to open his eyes yet.

“—only twelve percent,” Weavers voice is saying, “but an elevated heart rate. Double the dosage and try again.” 

His eyes fly open and he tries to struggle – all pride forgotten – all training forgotten – and he wishes he could beg for death but he can’t because he’s gagged and –

He goes under quicker, this time, but the pain follows him to his dreams and it goes on and on and on and on and –

Silence. Dark, soft, silence. 

_I have you_. says a spring breeze and he’s wrapped in silk and allowed to rest. 

***

It’s very quiet in her mind.

Jemma paces, not because she feels particularly motivated to move but because she can’t look at Morse standing behind Agent Weaver and not be filled with blinding rage. She’s not good at keeping her expression serene, so she walks. 

She and Bobbi were just starting to get on track before – before. But now she can’t even look at her. 

Of course, according to what Skye has told her – which is certainly more than she was supposed to – it wasn’t like Morse had objected to the procedure, had, in fact, supported Agent Weaver’s choice. 

It’s disappointing, but she can’t be surprised by it, not anymore. 

She turns around to pace back the other way and catches sight of them and what Agent Weaver is saying filters in, again, for a moment before she purposefully ignores it. 

“We did what we thought was best,” she’s saying – no, pleading, “with what information we had at the time.” 

Jemma scoffs and considers how they won’t even let May or Coulson talk to her without an escort. Even Fitz and Skye bring Mack, though from the look on his face she suspects he’s reporting on them less than he is supposed to. 

She stops to consider what that might mean for a moment, tilting her head back in thought when Agent Weaver’s voice intrudes again.

“-immons. Simmons! Jemma!” 

She turns slowly on her heel to look at her through the field that keeps her locked in. It’s very telling, she thinks, that even now that she’s ‘cured,’ they haven’t let her out. At least she’s not strapped down anymore but –

“It seems very likely to me,” Jemma says, finally choosing to sit in the metal chair directly across from her former teacher, “that if you keep up such a heavy ration of drugs to keep him unconscious, he is going to die.” 

Morse tenses and Jemma has to fight to keep her gaze on Weaver. Weaver laces her fingers together and leans forward, all attentive care. “And would that make you…unhappy, Jemma?” 

“Doctor Simmons, please.” Jemma says through a bright smile, before she tilts her head and considers the question. Would that make her unhappy? No. Not really. Most of her still believes he needs to die but. “No,” she says, definitively, before smiling brighter, “but as I do not have full access to the procedure, I am concerned it would negatively effect my recovery.” Her smile is full of teeth and warning. This is the woman who taught her to never do an experiment if you hadn’t considered all the potential outcomes, after all. 

Weaver pales and Jemma wonders how much of Grant is shinning through. “Right. Yes, of course.” She’s trying to placate her and Jemma wonders what she missed in the earlier not apology that would explain it, but Weaver doesn’t even have the grace to pretend to be serious before she’s waving Morse forward with papers. “As we figure that out, why don’t you look over some research and let me know what you –“

“I will not be your guinea pig or your performing monkey, Anne.” Jemma lets memories – not hers – manipulate her expression as she stares out of her cage. “You aren’t good enough to know you can bring me back again if you kill him. I don’t trust that you could.”

Morse looks to Weaver, then slips the papers into Jemma’s cell at her nod.

“Yes of course but –“ 

The notes they’ve handed her are clearly originals. She wonders if they’ve made copies as she glances them over, memorizes them in an instant, and then starts to systematically shred them. 

“What – Jemma – stop.” 

Weaver is out of her chair and Jemma bares her teeth again. “You know my terms.” 

She drops the papers on the ground and goes back to pacing. She can destroy the rest later. She wonders if they’ll try to lie to her, like she won’t know if he’s still swimming in a drugged sleep or not.

It’s much too quiet in her mind. 

***

The first thing in a long time that Grant is aware of is that his mouth tastes like road kill. 

Before he can process that, or anything else, however, he’s rolling onto his side and vomiting – his stomach is cramping and his throat is burning with acid and he can’t see through the tears blurring his vision as he heaves and heaves and heaves and –

Luckily it seems to have made it over the edge of the bed. Unluckily, he appears to be back in Vault D. 

The burn of stomach acid in his mouth is an improvement over the taste he woke up with – or at least that’s what he tries to convince himself as he catches the scent of his own sick and his stomach rebels, dry heaving until he’s a shaking mess curled into a ball at the side of the bed. He can’t even move his arms enough to roll over.

This is the weakest he’s ever been.

Agents he doesn’t recognize come to clean up his mess. They don’t even warn him or drug him or do anything – they don’t even have ICERs drawn on him and it doesn’t matter.

He can’t do anything other then shake and shiver as they bleach and manhandle him and change his sheets. He tries to say something – dry heaves instead and blacks out until after they’re gone.

He’s still in the same fetal position when he comes too and when Coulson comes down the stairs, hours later. 

He doesn’t try to move at first, just watching as Coulson settles into the chair and busies himself with something on his tablet for a moment, but he’s pretty sure the look on the man’s face is _pity_ and he can’t stand for that.

Well, he can’t stand at all, he thinks with a smirk, but that doesn’t mean he can’t try. 

It takes far longer than it should for him to maneuver enough to sit up, and he’s panting by the end of it, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat as he lets the wall take all of his weight. 

Coulson stays silent through it all, frown firmly in place.

“Phil,” he says, once he can speak again. “I can’t say you’ve done much with the place.” That’s a smile, and the sight warms Grant’s chest in a way that makes him grimace and rub at the spot. 

“How are you feeling?” Coulson asks, and Grant wonders at how sincerely worried the man sounds.

“Whoever you got on torture,” he says, not making any gestures for fear that the wall will stop holding him up, “they’re good, you should keep them.”

Coulson’s face falls and Grant finds himself looking past him so he doesn’t apologize. “We didn’t – it wasn’t meant to be torture.”

Grant scoffs. “Sure as shit wasn’t a nice cup of tea and a kip.” 

“Ward,” Coulson starts, his tone soft. “Grant…” Grant grimaces because he knows the lies that are no doubt coming. “I’m sorry that this happened to you, it wasn’t my—“

“That’s enough,” calls the guard from up the stairs, hand on his ICER. And that’s _very_ interesting isn’t it? 

“I thought you were in charge here, Phil?” Grant asks, as idly as he can manage as weakness tries to drag him down. 

Coulson is frowning, but Grant is fairly sure it’s at the man on the stairs and not at him. “I suppose there’s no sense asking how you feel.” He says, finally, attention fixing back on Grant. 

Grant is sure he’s looking for something, but he’s not sure what it is so he can’t specifically not give it to him. He doesn’t feel up to risking a shrug, so he just sneers slightly and scoffs. “I feel like I’ve been tortured.”

Coulson grimaces again. “And in your mind?”

And Grant goes still all over because — because. 

_I have you now, we’re safe._

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so for real, if you ship biospecialist then come talk to me [on tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/capriciouswrites), and also hoboy do I have other things for you to read. Unlike with...basically anything else I'm posting during fictober, sorry!
> 
> This might get a second part. It probably should. It's just a matter of if it _will_
> 
> Not edited nearly enough, hope you enjoyed anyways!


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